Well, I hope all you mothers out there had a nice day yesterday. I was greeted with a 6am wake-up and, what appeared to be, a pot of snot. Home-made cards = the best. Flowers = lovely Clay handprint = special Pot of Snot = questionable It was from my 4 year-old via nursery and [click here to read more]
Back in 1981, I was 8 years old.
We had our spellings given to us in a tobacco tin, we counted bottle tops in Maths and we were made to stand in the ‘silly circle’ if we misbehaved at break time.
So smoking, alcohol and public humiliation all perfectly acceptable.
Prince Charles married Lady Diana Spencer and we all marvelled at her wedding dress and tried to copy her hair-do. Most of us, unsuccessfully.
I went to parties with a white stripe across my face in homage to Adam Ant. And in the playground it was a major faux-pas to steps on any tiny insects ‘in case it was one of Adam’s Ants’. I know, I know.
Life was opening up to me and I had the (in my opinion) great fortune to spend my ‘growing up years’ in the 80s. Shoulder pads, Wham! (Andrew or George?), Back to the Future, ski pants, fluorescent yellow and pink alternate socks, black patent brogues with lace for shoe laces, jelly bags, Torvill and Dean, Thriller and Grolsch tops in your shoes.
Lots of memories, most of them good, a few of them wonderful. School days, exams, discos, first slow dance, first kiss. Great friends, two of whom remain my best friends today.
They say fashion goes in cycles; I think the 80s are back. And it grates…not just in a ‘My God, I wouldn’t be seen dead in that any more’ way and not in a ‘Man, that makes me feel old’ kind of way, but in a ‘Go away – these are my memories, my childhood, my era’ kind of way. Trespassers will be terminated. Hasta la vista, Baby.